


1980s Horror Film

by orphan_account



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I swear, I’m so sorry, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Oh, Post-Canon, SO, Teen and up for language, The House on 28 Neibolt Street (IT), Trigger Warning I Guess?, Zombies, and dirty jokes, but - Freeform, but I am a pure soul, hope some of y’all can enjoy this, probably going to hell for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-08 08:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "No one dies in Derry"That's what the old lady told Bev. No one dies. Or at least not forever. Not even those supposed to be rotting under the collapsed house on Neibolt street....





	1. Of Spotify Playlists and Crummy Hotel Bathtubs

I got a splinter from that goddamn bridge.

Right on the top of my thumb. Hurt like a bitch. I finished carving the last line of the  _ E  _ and ran my hand over the letters. Must have left some jagged edges 'cause something got stuck in my skin along the way. I just sort of cut it out with the pocket knife. Which was incredibly dumb. Nearly stabbed myself right in the gut. Shaky hands. Really shaky.

Eddie would have killed me for that. Not a sterile knife and certainly not a sterile environment. Could get infected. Gotta clean it. I never did. I got back from the bridge and went straight for the drink. Talked to Ben for a few minutes- listened to Ben talk- while I drank then retreated to my room. That's my idea of coping. Hiding myself from the people I trust most in the world in favor of making a shitty playlist that reminds me of Eddie and sitting in a dark bathroom.

I probably should clean my finger. Not only was there a shard of wood that could easily have been infected with some sort of finger warping disease inside my finger but also a rusty ass knife I dug out of my junk box before I left LA. Soap and water or something would do it some good. But I'm so tired and the sink is too far away.

And Eddie isn't here to yell at me.

We used to bike along that old bridge all the time. Part of me wished Eddie would look over and notice the initials, wanted him to stop me and force me to tell him everything; come clean. I would quit the jokes for once and  _ just tell him.  _ How much he meant to me, how much I cared about him. I wanted him to know so badly. Maybe I'll get everything I've ever wanted if I do tell him, the tiny voice in the back of my mind would whisper.

The other part of me had some sense of self preservation. Would make sure to poke and tease him even more as we rode past just so he wouldn't look up. Or if he would look up, he'd look at my stupid face and not at the railing that held a piece of my stupid, little, teenage heart. I could never make up my mind. 

Hell, I doubt I would tell him even now. I almost did back under Neibolt but chickened out. Surprise, surprise. He was so close, so real for a minute. His eyes were so bright and alive. His smile realer than any I had seen in so long. He took up every inch of my mind. My tiny, tiny mind. I could have kissed him. he probably would have killed me, but I would have done it. Finally gotten it all off my chest.

But I still have all of  _ this  _ hanging on. I'll tell the Losers eventually, I guess. I wanted to tell Eddie.

It was a sweet moment, though. Recarving my stupid little love for my best friend into a public bridge. Pathetic, I know. But sweet. For me at least. A reminder that not all scars heal. Our hands might all be wiped clean of our pasts but I couldn’t let that scar be washed away as simply as the slash across my palm was. 

I just need something, if only my wishful teenage mind’s rapidly carved letters, as a way to keep him alive. Us alive. Even if there never was an  _ us _ . Just a young and dumb  _ me  _ wishing and begging. Well, not just a young and dumb me. Even now I find myself watching Ben and Beverly holding hands as we all- well,  _ almost _ all- sit around talking and willing Eddie to be right next to me, holding my hand. Or just pressed against me like he used to be when we'd all crowd around each other. Either his head would land on my shoulder or he'd mash against me until he was practically in my lap. I never complained. I wouldn't now either.

Eddie anywhere in any situation would be nice. As long as he's alive and with me and safe, I don't care. He could walk in on me right now and I would not give a damn how much his opinion of me lowered. He'd be alive. And I'd have time to tell him what I meant to tell him twenty seven years ago.

Although, if Ed's saw me in my current situation- sobbing into a sweater I stole from Eddie's suitcase and sitting in a bathtub- he probably wouldn't give me the chance to tell him. I wouldn't blame him.

But at this point I can't really help it. I've had a few drinks and I'm emotionally broken. Memories of exchanged words, touches, and looks keep flooding back into my mind without warning. 

Sleepovers with and without the other Losers- we'd always set our bags next to each other so we could talk when the others fell asleep or, in the winter, so we could get closer together and share some warmth. Our fingers would find each other in the middle of the night, twining together, leaving me to wake up with an ache in my chest and stomach because I could get so close but never get where I so desperately wanted to be. Asthma attacks in the middle of the night meant panic and panic meant Eddie needed someone there. I always wanted to be that someone.

Days spent either joking and laughing until our sides split or reading the comic books I would lug around for him in the hammock until one or both of us would fall asleep. The hammock was too small for the both of us but Eddie never complained. He just climbed on top of me, settled in, and let me wrap my arms around him so I could prop the comic against his knees. He was always so cold. I was always warm. It was nice, especially in summer, to get to hold him. Like my personal freeze pack. And when he'd fall asleep against me, my heart would hammer against my ribs just at the sight of his soft eyes closed so gently. He never looked so relaxed awake. I loved seeing him let go of all his anxieties.

Secret whispers written in shaking ink, too. In the middle of class. Usually having to do with weekend plans or answers to homework and test questions. But sometimes, they were different. Sometimes, instead of mundane words lacking a spark, there were words that held just a bit of tension. Words that would send my head spinning, my heart racing. I used to have a little box full of those sorts of notes. The ones I could keep without Eddie noticing, that is. His handwriting was messy. The one thing I could find that was messy of his. It was cute. 

But, those days ended as soon as we both split. His mom dragged him out of Derry before we could say goodbye. Before I could tell him anything. He was just gone one day. They left to live with Eddie's aunt for a bit. Sonia never spoke of a sister to Eddie, but that's what he told the Losers at the restaurant last night. 

And our letters were never anything to speak of. We told each other everything about our lives for the first few, then we started to slip. School started, homework piled up and our memories of each other dimmed and dimmed until neither of us could remember shit. 

I think he started to forget sooner than I did. It’s easier to forget feeling for someone who’s just a best friend than to forget the feelings for… Well, for Eddie, I guess. Not a major fan of that, but the past is the past. I forgot him, too. Eventually. And I will again. 

Hopefully.

Which is awful to say, I know. ‘Cause I never wanna forget that little fucker. How could I ever want to forget any of the Losers? But it’s easier to live without the memories of someone I’ll never see alive again, than to live  _ with _ those memories. I’m bound to see Bill on the back flap of his next book, maybe a talk show or two. And Ben and Beverly in a news article. Maybe Mike and I will even visit each other. But Eddie, and even Stan… I don’t know how I’ll manage to keep them within my thoughts and not go insane.

The thought of Stan making such a permanent decision without ever getting to help us defeat his tormentor makes me sick. He had a life. I spoke to his wife earlier. She sounded sweet and smart. I bet Stan loved her. He always loved with everything he had.

And I know the image of Eddie impaled on that giant talon mid sentence will forever haunt my every moment. If not the subject of my thoughts, then an ever living presence somewhere in my conscious. 

I don’t want that. I don’t want my last picture of Eds to be him all mangled with blood spilling down his lips… And on to me.

I just want to remember the man in the maroon cardigan and yellow polo sitting next to me at dinner, wanting to arm wrestle just to prove his strength. Or, better yet, the boy. Bright red shorts with rainbow stripes on the sides, black fanny pack holding all of his medicine, rolling his eyes at my every joke. I want that Eddie.

I fucking want  _ my _ Eddie.

But that's not gonna happen- I can't bring myself to say that he's gone- so if I can't just remember a healthy, happy Eddie then I don't want to remember him at all. I need to know he won't disappear, that our past won't disappear, though. Even if no one ever  _ knows _ why a sloppy R+E was scraped into the kissing bridge, I want it to be there. That way Eddie can never be completely forgotten. He'll always be here with us. Somewhat. 

I can't make up my mind. Fuck. I want him but I don't. I miss him but I can't. Christ, I don't know how to do this. 

And that’s why the four sevenths of the Losers Club is celebrating our defeat downstairs at the bar while I wallow in despair upstairs in my disgusting ass bathtub. Just because I can’t get out of my head. Can’t get my terrifying thoughts out of my head. Can’t get Stan, alone, in a similar position as mine right now, out of my head. Can’t get Eddie, unmoving but still warm, left alone with that monster, out of my head.

My head really isn’t of much use.

For one, I thought throwing my already bruised and scraped up body down into a porcelain tub without any form of padding was a brilliant idea. And I never bothered to get up for a blanket or pillow when the rim of said tub really began to leave a mark on my back. No, instead I repositioned myself so instead of damage to my back, there will be even more done to my skull. A true genius I am.

I should get out of here. Should being the key word here. 'Cause my options right now are: continue to slip into a state of utter physical numb but mental whirring in this melting pot of nast Derry germs, slip into a state of utter physical numb but mental whirring in my hotel bed- also a Derry germ breeding ground but slightly more comfortable-, or join my friends who have all the booze. 

On the one hand, drinking sounds like a fucking excellent plan, but on the other, I know drinking will just make me sad and depressed. Well,  _ more  _ sad and depressed than I currently am. But, at least I won't be lying in a dirty bathtub with tears in my nose and mouth anymore. That does mean I'll have to trust my limbs to carry me down to a bar stool, though. I'm more likely to fall down those creaky stairs and break my neck than actually make it to the Losers. 

Whether I end up dead quickly or killing myself slowly with my friends, I'll be numb and that's enough for me. 

Maybe I'll get to see Eddie sooner than I originally thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoy :)


	2. Of Inhalers and Contemplating Life vs. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone and trapped. 
> 
> Where the fuck is here?

It's really fucking hot here. Why is it so hot?

Am I dead?

Did It kill me finally?

Oh fuck no. There are living- _moving_\- things here. Slimy little fuckers.

Where the fuck is _here_? It's too dark and uncomfortable to be heaven, but there isn't anyone else here so I have to assume I'm not in hell.

Unless my dumbass managed to get myself to be the one and only person sent to hell. But that's a stretch for even my anxiety plagued mind.

Limbo, then? The place we go before someone, or something, decides our fate.

Wherever I am does look familiar, however there is next to no light so I can just barely make out some silhouettes.

_Why is it so goddamn hot?_

Maybe I am in hell.

But, if I am in a sort of limbo, where are the others? I was with the Losers before this, right? We were fighting the clown-spider-thing, weren't we? We got separated. Bill and Mike by themselves, Ben and Bev together, and Richie grabbed me. We ran from It. Into the back of a cave. Richie was holding my arm, my wrist kind of. His hand would slip lower towards my hand when he got scared. I didn’t mind so much.

There were three doors. Not Scary, Scary, Very Scary. A closet and that fucking pomeranian. Richie's pomeranian. Demon. Just like Richie.

That wasn't the end, though. We all got back and fought again. Richie started screaming at It like last time but got cut off. The deadlights. Richie got caught in the deadlights. Just like Bev twenty seven years ago. I vaguely remember Richie’s eyes turning white and his mouth hanging open. Looked like a zombie. All dead limbs and nothing else- except I knew there was something else behind those glass eyes; there always is- _Can you imagine_? All those germs and diseases. But I vividly recall being enraged by that encounter. No one touches Richie. Not a single being gets to mess with Richie fucking Trashmouth Tozier. He's an asshole and he's my asshole. Our asshole. The Losers'asshole. That anger blinded me into killing that clown. Whether I really believed that the fence post actually killed monsters or not. No one touches Richie.

I saw Richie crumble to the ground while It flailed about. His head smacked right against the stones, his back must have cracked a dozen times. God, I was sure he would have gotten some sort of brain damage from that fall. Or break some bones. He seemed okay when I jumped on him, though.

_When I jumped on him. _

I also very much remember that. For awhile I was just so fucking relieved he was alive. _He's alive! Richie's a-okay, Eds. A-okay_! And he was okay. He was close to me, we were together. We were both okay. I wanted to hug him so badly. Just to make sure he wasn't hurt. I mean, we were all bleeding and scraped up- stupid me, our blood could have mixed.

_AIDS. You’ll get AIDS, Eddie-bear. Stay away from boys like that Tozier child_.

But I wanted to make sure he was okay. No major injuries. Alive and okay. Out of the Deadlights, under me, safe. That’s what he deserves. A good life. Safe.

I used to think I could be that for him. Kind of. When we would have sleepovers and he’d have a nightmare I’d sit with him until he calmed down. He’d wake up in a sweat, crying even sometimes, and I’d hug him.

He used to cling to me on bad nights.

It sounds so fucked up, but I loved it. I never wanted to let go. ‘Cause as long as he was wrapped up with me I knew he was safe. I’d keep everything away. Life could fuck off. Nothing could get through me.

Tiny, weak, _fragile_, little Eddie Kaspbrack. I didn’t have a whole lot of common sense at the time. But what does it matter? My mom dragged me away from him so I could never protect him again and he grew up. He doesn’t need me.

He never really did.

_Stupid, Eddie._

But he'd say close on those nights and that's what I needed then. To have him close. It was more a nightmare for me than Richie. Either way, he was there and I was there and we were okay.

After that, I have no more memories. None that are clear enough to really recall. Just Richie saying my name softly. That and… something else. There's something right on the very edge in my mind. So close but I can't do more than skim it with my mind. Maybe I'll get my memories back soon. Maybe I hit my head- better get that checked out, I refuse to die wherever the fuck I am.

Except, I don't have to worry about that, do I? I am dead. I'm in limbo. Because I couldn't cut it right away for heaven. That must be it. I'm not in pain, I can't see, and I don't hear anything so I must be dead. The dead can't feel.

The heat.

I can feel the heat.

The fucking heat. And the silhouettes. I can sort of see those. There must not be anything to hear, though. Or I've gone deaf. There's a ringing in my ears. Is that what deaf people hear? Just ringing? Shit, what if I burst an eardrum? Mommy's gonna kill me.

_Myra_.

Myra's gonna kill me. Not Mommy. Fuck, Kasprack, get ahold of yourself. I've never been good at that, though. I've always let others do that for me. Mommy would keep me in line when I was home, the Losers- Richie in particular- when I was out and about killing a demonic clown, Myra when I met her, and my inhaler whenever they weren't around. Even if it was a placebo all along. It kept my chest from imploding and that was- is- good enough for me.

My inhaler.

Fuck. Where is that? Did I drop it at some point? I mean, I was bound to drop something while being chased by that bitch ass clown. I didn't drop the makeshift spear so I must have dropped my inhaler. Or my phone. I could try to call Richie if I had that. If I have service. If I'm alive. But I can't go find either. Even if I am still in that cavern under Derry and my inhaler is somewhere nearby, I'm blind as of now.

Would my inhaler buy me some more air? I’m bound to run out of oxygen eventually. It feels stuffy wherever I am. The heat, no doubt. Ah, shit. I need that inhaler. However, I am certainly not going to risk lunging about in whatever liquids or gases or _fluids_ are floating down here.

I wonder what is down here? If I could see would I find the bodies of my friends? Mike? Bill? Bev and Ben? Richie? Would I find It? All of it’s ridiculous stage makeup worn off, dripping down its face like a sad, melting candle.

Or maybe I’d find nothing. Just nothing. I’d find myself alone. Completely alone. No Stan, no Myra, no Mike.

No Richie.

What I would give to have some night vision right now. Like in those comics Richie and I would read together. In the hammock. All bunched together. Hidden from the world by layers of dirt, bugs, leaves, and moss.

That was the only time I didn't mind the mess.

When we were in the clubhouse. Specifically when I was with Richie. In the hammock or sitting in a pathetic circle with the rest of us, me practically in Richie's lap for no reason at all other than I wanted to be with him.

To feel him.

Hear his stupidly loud breathing.

I loved that. Being with my friends.

With Richie.

I'd kill to get to see Richie again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Of Drinks and Stolen Sweatshirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking sucks, doesn't it?
> 
> Especially for the group clown.

"He's back!" 

"Didn't pass out on your way to the room, I see." 

"Wish I had." Four people occupy four chapping leather bar stools. A woman with short, fiery hair in the middle, a man in a blue checkered flannel with a white T underneath on the far end, another man in similar attire sitting with his hand in the woman's, and a third man with close cut curls sits closest to the door. 

"Come on, Rich. Don't listen to Bill and Mike. We are all happy you've decided to join us again." Beverly swats at the two men on either side of the bar as she gets up and moves towards where I've fallen into an equally falling apart arm chair. 

My feet end up over one arm and my head on the other. Bev sits on the ottoman.

The lights are too damn bright in here. 

"Hey, Bev," I gesture blindly towards Beverly with the hand that isn't shielding my eyes, "you wanna get me a drink?" 

She pats my leg before responding. "You don't need a drink, Richie. You need some group time." I can hear the fond smile in her voice. 

"If by 'group time' you mean 'getting a drink from Bill and leaving,' then yes. I do need some group time." Can't even force a fake smile into my words. "Say, Bill,"  _ Eddie. I should be teasing Eddie. _ "be a doll and fetch me a scotch on the rocks?"  _ Where's Eddie? My Eddie Spaghetti? _

Beverly's cry of "Bill!" follows the muffle scrape of a bar stool being pushed back. 

"Come on, Bev, we've all had drinks. Richie can have some, too."

"If Richie didn't drink and smoke his problems away he could." Ice drops into a glass. Thank god. "But that's exactly what he does which means we'll have to deal with a drunk, emotionally unstable dipshit all night."

I resent that statement. 

_ It's true, though.  _

Ben: "One drink, Bev."

Mike: "We'll make sure he doesn't fuck-"

Me: "Eddie's mom? Not possible, my friend."  _ Right, Eddie? _

_ Stan? _

There's a pause between the other Losers. Then Bev chimes back in. "See? He's already delirious. We all remember the last time we got drunk together. His jokes got even worse."

Stan punched me that night. Scrawny little arms didn't do anything, and he didn't mean to hurt me. Just get me to shut the fuck up. Trashmouth. I can't remember exactly what I said that made the generally mild mannered, if not blunt, bird boy to punch me. Usually he'd sit by and roll his eyes. Laugh occasionally. Though, I mostly got laughs out of him when he got stuck alone with me. 

I got him to arm wrestle me one time. His skin was stupid soft. And his arms, spindles, but soft. Weirdly soft. He used to lotion his skin obsessively. Said he would start to peel and crack if he didn't. His arms got the most lotion, I guess.

_ No need for lotion anymore. Now there are bandages on his soft arms. _

"Wake up, jackass." Bill slaps my cheek under my limp hand and puts the glass of scotch against my palm.

"Oh, thanks, Big Bill." I take the glass, not bothering to move my legs off the arm of the chair. I wanna go back to my bathtub and get drunk but I'm also very tired and very fond of getting drinks from Bill. 

Bev got up at some point, I guess, 'cause instead of being seated on the ottoman she's now standing beside Mike. Everyone's rather quiet. Most of us, Mike, Ben, Bill and I, have drinks in our hands. No one drinks, though. It's just quiet. 

I can feel them watching me, Beverly mostly, but the other three have their eyes on me, too. Not a fan of that. "Look, you guys," I start, "I know I'm attractive but that doesn't mean you can keep undressing me with your eyes."

Bill chuckles. Mike takes a sip of his drink. Beverly drops her gaze. Ben responds, "In your fucking dreams, Trashmouth."

No one huffs about how crude that is and goes into a rambling mess that is completely ignored by us.

_ Eds? Why aren't you rambling? _

No one rolls his eyes.

_ Stan? Where'd you go, buddy? _

I chug my glass. "Time for another drink, I'm afraid." I get up to make it myself. I think they notice then. The room gets quiet and Bev doesn't try to stop me. They must realize this isn't my sweater I'm wearing. 

Drink. Drown 'em out.

My legs feel numb. I feel numb. Alcohol isn't gonna help that at all, will it? But what will? Getting them back. Getting Eddie out of that tomb alongside Pennywise. Driving or flying or something to Stan before he got the chance to put razor to paper and hand in his letter of resignation. 

How the shit do I rectify this? 

"Honey?" Beverly's voice and hand on my shoulder snap me from my quickly darkening thoughts. "You okay?" I'm just standing in the middle of the room. Never even made it to the bar. 

"I'm-" I can feel my voice cracking already so I don't bother with the rest of my sentence. It was a lie, anyway. I doubt I'll be okay again in a very long time. 

Besides, they've seen me have one breakdown today already. No need for another. That's not how the group clown-  _ trashmouth _ , poor choice of words on my part- is supposed to act. I don't have feelings. I just make dirty jokes that aren't even good enough to be put into a stand up routine. 

Beverly takes the glass out of my hand and puts it down on the counter, keeping contact with me at all times. Like she would with Eddie, Stan, and me when we would have rough nights. 

_ Stan wasn't the only one with bandages, Richie.  _

But that's in the past. Bad nights are in the past. The nightmares, the late nights spent on the bathroom floor, the crying. All in the past. And if I refuse to sleep for fear of seeing the last two puzzle pieces alone and covered in blood in my dreams, so be it. 

A new hand lands on my other shoulder.  _ When did I close my eyes? And when did everything get so fogged up? _ I can tell it's Mike even with my fucked up eyes. He's always had big hands. Strong hands. Farm boy. "Rich, we're all here for each other. You can talk to us." 

I take off my glasses and wipe them clean even though I had to wash them in the lake earlier when they were covered in…

"Don't get all sappy on me, man." I laugh. No one else does. "Come on, guys! I'm fine." Totally fine. People who are a-okay always go into their dead best friend's closet and steal a sweatshirt to wear just to have  _ something.  _ And they also definitely just about fly out the nearest exit everytime they recognize a bird song. 

I'm absolutely a-okay!

But none of us believe that. 

Stupid fucking clown. Now they're all suspicious.  _ Dirty little secret. Truth or dare.  _ I can't avoid their questioning glances whenever I make a crude joke or let my gaze linger maybe just a smidge too long on someone to whom I shouldn't be paying any mind.

Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid.  _

Dirty little secrets never get me anywhere and the one person I trusted enough to tell went and quit on me. 

I shrug off Mike and Bev as lightheartedly as I possibly can at the moment and turn so I can see my remaining friends. They're all worried. 

"I'm fine. I swear." 

Ben says, "We know. You just tend to bottle things up. And when there's too much pressure in those bottles…" He gestures at his wrist. I squirm uncomfortably. 

"I'm clean. Years clean." Really. Eddie leaving was rough for awhile, but when I left and moved on somewhere new, life took a turn. The scars left a painful history, but they're just that. None are red and oozing. None are even purple and itchy. Just as swollen as they were years ago. 

That earns me a smile, at least. 

"They'd be proud of you."

God, I hope so. "Thanks, Mikey." I have two options again. Go back upstairs and hide, proving their point that I'm not okay, or stay down here and pray the interaction does me some good. "Now, if I have to stay down here with you guys and  _ talk  _ to you losers, I better be allowed to drink."

The mood lightens a bit as we all settle into different seats forming one big circle. 

We leave two seats open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m proud of myself for making it this far into a story and not disliking it too much and I’m amazed that this many people are actually enjoying this. Thank you!!


End file.
